When sleeplessness pounds
like spooked black Horses,
and the Night-Mare rears her hooves
calling across a canyon,
the hooves are a drum on the ground,
and pointed teeth and fetlock
are the blur of a shutter speed,
shadows are the shapes of fear
the sky is tainted black,
and the pin pricks of stars
mark the surface of a dream,
wake up.

For the shadows are only trees,
knocking against the window,
insistent you pay them attention
and the spooked black horse is calm,
carrying the eternal foot-man
who holds your coat,
but smiles and waves,
saying it is not time, just yet.
You know it was either the rain,
or the pipes that woke you,
but somewhere, out there,
is a Spooked Black Horse,
and unanswered questions.


After Ben Macnair was born in 1976 in Nottingham, and now resides in Staffordshire. He has been writing
creatively on and off for the last four or five years.  His poetry has appeared in Purple Patch, Raw Edge, and
various other small print publications, and was featured in the National Poetry Anthology for 2005, 2006, and
2008, 2009 and the forthcoming 2010. His Short Stories have appeared in Twisted Tongue, and in two Forward
Press Anthologies, whilst Journalism and reviews have appeared in Blues in Britain Magazine, Verbal Magazine,
and various local newspapers and The Independent.



Copyright 2009